I met a guy from Brockton Mass. he showed me a trailer for a show called Wayne that is set in the same town. This is what it inspired in me.
The Uncompromised Few of New Rochelle
By Tyler Lucas Mobley
“He was supposed to be here an hour ago,” Nezbit said, turning to his friends.
“What makes you think he’s coming back?” replied Bennet.
“Because he said he would, alright,” Nezbit returned with more force than his small body could conjure.
The gang of teenagers at the base of the dock looked at Nez staring into the water, lost in his own reflection.
“Poor kid, thinks he’s still better than us,” Rags muttered into a close ear. “Hey don’t sweat it Nezbit, I remember the last time my Pops said he would pick me up, now he’s doing 7 to 10 for aggravated assault.”
The hard truth was some of his friends had envious thoughts about Rags for knowing what had happened to his father, while they were left with questions that left burning holes in them only to be forgotten with violence and drugs, but no one spoke up. Rags recognized a worry in Nezbit that he’d once had, it frightened him, he didn’t like to see it in his friend, even if it was the needy little brat Nezbit, he too deserved a father.
Off in the distance came the rattle of a can being kicked in stride down a street. “Ahh Christ, here come those 31st punks,” Rutherford said, alerting his crew. It was true the other neighborhoodlums had gone out looking for old troubles in familiar places.
“Look what we have here, if it ain’t a buncha stinkin 12thers’ any of youz sisters’ get pregnant yet, I’ll be jumping all over those tax credits just you wait,” Livermore smacked.
“Piss off Livermore, we don’t want any of your shit today,” Rutherford repiled.
“Pardon me, did I interrupt the next thumb going up your butt?” Livermore returned.
Truth is if these kids didn’t have trouble they wouldn’t have anything at all.
“I rectum you think you’re pretty cool huh, Livermore?” Rutherford asked.
“Sure, not like any youz gunna tell me I’m not,” Livermore said, opening his jacket with his hands in the pockets the way a cat ruffs it’s furr.
“Hey who all thinks Livermore has the dull side of an ill mind?” announced Raymond.
All the hands on the dock went up in snickers. “Vote is in Liv, looks like a punch in your mug amounts to community service,” Raymond remarked.
“I dare you to say that again,” Livermore said, toughening up.
“Okay, what I said was Livermore has the dull side of an ill…” A brick careened off Raymond’s face before he could finish.
Fists and elbows careen off bone, the skirmish escalated into a cartoonish dust cloud of blood and bruises; it didn’t matter who started the fight, no one had anything better to do. They fought and fought until anger turned into exhaustion providing a moment of clarity as tensions settled.
“Where did you learn that combo?” asked Rutherford, “I’ve only seen my big bro use that one on me. What was that, cross circle hook?”
Livermore stopped smacking the face of an unconscious companion to wake him, “when you’re on the receiving end it makes you want to serve it up too,” he said then loaded up for another smack which did not come, noticing a drop of blood freshly fallen on the friend’s face that hadn’t been there before, then whipped his chin with the back of his sleeve.
“That must be why you flinched a little before you threw it,” said Rutherford. “Some reverse muscle memory.”
“Whatever, just remember how it felt when it landed, would you like a refresher?” Livermore called over his shoulder.
The unconscious boy awoke in a strained groan of alarm, “I told you I wanted lucky charms in my waffles.”
“Ahh Christ, he’s back in junior high again, brush him with daisy and you’ll scramble his wits,” Livermore remarked. “Pinky, why you such a worthless filthy lump?” still patting his face.
Nezbit watched from behind a stack of pallets, not wanting to sacrifice himself for the honor of peers he didn’t even like. He held no affinity for their doings, they were just the one’s around and everyone knew it was dangerous to be a loner.
“Where’s that lil Bit?” asked Livermoore, “this day won’t be done till that lil snot has a bloody nose.”
“Yea I heard some chirps during the royal, he’s still around,” Rutherford said, “Hey Nezzy come on out, we know you’re out there.”
Nezbit felt his breath grow short, he wanted to disappear, teleport away to a far away place, a different scene with different problems, but nothing happened. He rattled the stack of pallets in hope the noise would be attributed to some scavenging creature that would be more entertaining to torment than he.
“What’s the deal Nez, if you watched the fight come and get your ticket punched?” Rutherford quipped.
“Yea what’s your Mother gunna say when you come home without any bruises? She’ll think you’ve been playing with the girls again,” Livermore teased.
His mother had given him a talk about associating with the opposite sex, “they’ll be looking for alimony before there’s any fruit to bear.” Nezbit stepped out from behind the stack and was met with a brick in the face. A direct hit as soon as his mug was visible made clear his position was no secret; they were toying with him.
“That’s for being a scaredy cat,” called Rutherford, “now give Liverbutt a taste of his own medicine.”
Picking himself off the ground, Nezbit felt as though he were walking into the middle of the Coliseum, eyes anticipating his demise.
“Step two Nezzy, I ain’t got all day,” Livermore remarked, then turning to Rutherford, “Don’t think Imma let that slide, as soon as I’m through with lil Bit here, you got more coming,” he said shaking a fist. Rutherford waited till Livermore turned away then stuck his tongue out at him which let in a taste of blood to his mouth.
Nezbit and Livermore squared up and prepared for battle. Nezbit could hardly breathe, nerves constricted his throat, choking what little confidence he had to come away from this alive. Livermore threw a faint teasing his out matched opponent followed by more till one punch got close enough forcing a reaction from Nezbit who returned an instinctual kick landing on Livermore’s shin.
“Ahhhhh, what kinda shit was that,” Livermore cried, holding his leg in both hands.
Nezbit realized this was his one shot and landed a fist right between the eyes of Livermore, drawing his hands back up to his face, Nezbit swung again to the gut, doubling him over to the ground. Nezbit turned to Rutherford with a look of relief, who shook his head in return, “you’re gunna wish you hadn’t done that.” Before the excitement could fall from Nezbit’s face his legs were swept out from under him and fell on his back, knocking the wind from him. Livermore jumped up and began dragging a weezing Nezbit by a foot toward the waterline, feeling the asphalt turn to cold mud beneath him. Livermore, embarrassed, cursed through a clenched jaw, “think you can pull that shit with me huh?” he said looking back at the Nezbit then continued with inarticulate gripes.
“Send ‘em down the river like the little Moses!” called a lowly goon from the crowd.
Livermore drew up, and both he and Nezbit looked back in the direction of the call with confused concern. “Can it Denunzio no one asked you,” Livermore shouted back. Nezbit added a “yeah,” to second to the motion, then received a firm kick to his ribs, “shut it, you’re in no place to be making requests lil Bit,” Livermore said leaning over Nezbit. Livermore reached down and picked up Nezbit his belt and jacket collar and tossed him in the shallow muck. Nezbit landed with a viscous splash, Livermore kneeled over him and repeatedly thrust Nezbit’s face into the sludge.
“Yeah, give it to him Liv,” came one bloodthirsty cry.
“Get ’em with that big stick,” said another.
Livermore looked up from the stream of bubbles coming from Nezzy’s half submerged head to consider the possibilities a stick would provide, perhaps making a flag pole which he could mount Nezbit on with his feet dangling over the water, liking the idea he surveyed for the potential weapon. However, what caught his eye was no stick, Livermore rose slowly and approached the dark mass caught in some reeds a couple meters away. Nezbit pushed himself up through the mess cold and coughing, Livermore still in reach kicked him back down once more without taking his eyes off the mysterious object. “Hey fellas, that’s no stick, it’s a corpse!” Livermore cried with surprise.
Nezbit cleared his faculties once more, sensing the attention lift from him; he looked to Livermore standing motionless in the mud a few feet away.
“No way, my first dead body, let me see,” said Denunzio running toward the dock.
Rutherford grabbed Denunzio by the collar and pulled him back, “you go touchin it and they’ll pin the loss on you Dunzo.”
Denunzio looked back with salivating dog eyes, collecting himself before calling out to Livermore, “check it’s pockets.”
Livermore did spot a lump near the tush and carefully bent to retrieve it with practiced efficacy. He opened it and after a quick look, “no cash,” Livermore lied, “for one Mr. Franklin Barthalmule Nunenbaum, hey Nezzy isn’t that your name?”
“Ahh Christ did he just say Nunenbaum?” Rutherford said, taking off toward the dock.
“Nezbit Nunenbaum that’s you ain’t it?” Livermore asked without remorse.
Nezbit understood the question, but his mind wouldn’t allow the conclusion to surface, the silt in the water settled around his feet. Rutherford wrapped an arm around Nezbit, turning him away, “go home, you were never here.” Nezbit left with squishy steps, he didn’t dare look back.
“Well he did say his dad would be here to pick him up,” Raymound said.
A well measured complement directed at any of them had the potential to induce adequate reflection, squelching the hunger of sorrow. Their hearts lumps of coal forever whittled down, feeding the propulsive fire on the locomotive-sized pain of their lives. Insurmountable momentum down circle tracks they’d do anything to derail.
THE END
Letters of Measure 